


just business

by flirtygaybrit



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, DC Extended Universe
Genre: Butt Plugs, Fingerfucking, Hotel Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possibly Unrequited Love, Power Dynamics, Questionable Business Transactions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13637658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: It’s well into the night, the lobby mostly deserted, and though he hadn’t expected to encounter many people on his way up, he didn’t want to risk it. He’s more than thankful for the privacy given by the late hour; most of the guests on his floor are probably already asleep, which means he doesn’t have to deal with anybody looking too closely at him as he makes his way to the room, questioning the sweat prickling on the back of his neck, the badly-concealed bulge in the front of his pants.He’s done well to make it this far. Only his hotel room door is separating him from relief, and although his hands are steady when he finally swipes his key card, he can’t turn the door handle quickly enough.





	just business

The walk from the third-floor staircase to Bruce’s hotel room feels like an impossibly long journey. 

It’s a shorter trip than the walk to the elevator, thankfully, but more of the hotel guests use the elevator than the stairs. It’s well into the night, the lobby mostly deserted, and though he hadn’t expected to encounter many people on his way up, he didn’t want to risk it. He’s more than thankful for the privacy given by the late hour; most of the guests on his floor are probably already asleep, which means he doesn’t have to deal with anybody looking too closely at him as he makes his way to the room, questioning the sweat prickling on the back of his neck, the badly-concealed bulge in the front of his pants. 

He’s done well to make it this far. Only his hotel room door is separating him from relief, and although his hands are steady when he finally swipes his key card, he can’t turn the door handle quickly enough.

There are no lights on in the room, no lamps lit to provide soft ambiance and guide his way in. As the door swings inward the light from the hallway reaches inside with greedy claws, dragging his shadow along as it illuminates a strip of carpet across the room. Bruce’s eyes are unaccustomed to the dark, but he forgoes the light switch as he steps in, careful not to let the door slam shut behind him.

While he adjusts to the sudden blackness, he kneels slowly and unlaces his shoes. The small strip of light shining from beneath the door barely grants enough visibility for him to make out the wall hook for his jacket, but by the time he finishes with his shoes and reaches for his belt buckle he’s already started to acclimate to the dark. 

The room is lit, if only faintly, by the orange-yellow of the city lights beyond his window. He can see the undisturbed surface of the comforter on the bed, a dresser with a television, the dark shape of a comfortable chair in the corner window, and the outline of the man sitting in it.

Bruce rubs a palm over his groin, hissing softly. The figure remains unmoving, watching as he slips his belt from its loops and drops it on the bed.

There’s no mistaking the silhouette: broad shoulders, crossed swords, the outer curve of his helmet shining in the soft light. He’s looking straight ahead, but Bruce can make out the shadowy depression on the right side of his helmet, the precise shape of an eye hole that was never hollowed out. There’s something about a helmet like that, its expression so impassive, giving away so little of the man beneath; it feels voyeuristic, like Bruce has been the subject of examination without realizing it. The thought makes Bruce’s cock twitch under Deathstroke’s impassive gaze. 

Bruce begins to cautiously remove his pants. His cock is aching and every movement makes something shift inside him, reminding him of how torturous it’s been to keep himself covered and under control until he could make it back to the privacy of his own hotel room, where he can leave his pants in a puddle of fabric on the floor. 

The light from the window is stronger than the darkness now. Bruce has a better view of the single eye hole in Deathstroke’s mask, and a better idea of what he must look like to the man behind that mask, still in a crisp button-up but nude below the waist, his bare legs and cock on full display.

The shirt is an issue that he needs to address. Without stepping forward Bruce begins to unbutton his shirt, which is rarely so difficult a task as he finds it now. He lays the shirt next to his belt. He doesn’t typically put this much effort into undressing, but there’s something immensely satisfying about the subtle way Deathstroke straightens up in his chair, a hand raised and fingers curling, beckoning him forward for inspection.

Bruce crosses the short space separating them and crawls onto the chair, planting his knees on either side of Deathstroke’s thighs. He’ll happily pay for whatever damage is about to befall the chair, but for now, he’s satisfied with the knowledge that Deathstroke has to look up to meet his gaze.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up.”

Deathstroke’s voice is sharp, artificial, making it nearly as well-disguised as Bruce’s own. Bruce lifts a hand and presses it against his neck, where the voice modulator is concealed in the armour. He can’t feel it underneath his palm, and Deathstroke doesn’t seem to be concerned about Bruce’s fingers curling slowly around his throat. He hardly shifts at all when Bruce leans in to examine the angular hole on the left side of his helmet.

“Don’t forget your place. I don’t want you to think you’re in control.”

“You don’t have the power to make that decision,” Bruce murmurs. He thumbs over the material covering Deathstroke’s throat, eyes fluttering briefly shut as a gloved finger brushes against the base of the plug between his legs. Deathstroke’s expression is nearly impossible to read, but Bruce can see his gaze shift downward to his hand between Bruce’s thighs. “I don’t want to remind you what you’re here for.”

Deathstroke chuckles, pressing against the plug’s base to rock it against the inside of Bruce’s body. “I don’t take orders.”

“You’ll take orders from me,” Bruce says quietly. He draws himself up to his full height and takes advantage of the position to press his forehead against the brow of the helmet and gaze into Deathstroke’s single eye. He tightens his grip around Deathstroke’s throat and lowers his voice further. “While you’re on my payroll, you belong to me. You’re only here because you have a job to do.”

Deathstroke maintains eye contact while he grips the base of the plug and presses it up, forcing it deeper into Bruce as he begins to work it in a slow circle. “Sounds like I should get to work.”

Bruce growls quietly and pushes Deathstroke into the chair by the throat. In retaliation, Deathstroke eases the plug out of Bruce almost completely, then presses it back into him as deep as Bruce’s body will allow. Bruce shivers with delight. There isn’t enough length to the toy to give him any real satisfaction, but as he slides his free hand up over Deathstroke’s chest to one of the sword hilts and pulls it from its sheath, he finds himself wondering how long he’ll be able to play until the plug is replaced with something better.

He presses the sharp edge of the blade against Deathstroke’s throat.

“Did you bring anything else with you?”

Deathstroke tips his chin up, gaze sliding along the length of the sword, up Bruce’s arm, over his face. “Just what you see. But I can improvise if you want.”

This time he pulls the plug completely out. Bruce inhales sharply and clenches around nothing while Deathstroke leans forward to place the plug on the table nearby. It’s a maddening sensation, carrying the plug around for hours only to have it removed and discarded in the span of a second, but he doesn’t protest. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Deathstroke reaching for a bottle in the shadows, and as he returns his gaze to Deathstroke’s face he hears the promising sound of the plastic cap flipping open.

The sensation that replaces the plug underneath him is strange; though newly slick, there’s an uncomfortable friction as Deathstroke begins to push a still-gloved finger into Bruce. The material feels unfamiliar against Bruce’s skin, cool on the side with the metal covering his luckles, and it lights his nerves on fire as Deathstroke pushes it into him, stretching him open in place of the plug. 

He bares his teeth and leans forward, pressing himself along Deathstroke’s front as he attempts to get away from the unyielding pressure of his finger, but Deathstroke simply curls an arm around Bruce and pins him against his chest.

“Don’t forget,” Deathstroke says quietly, “I’m giving you what you paid for.”

(This is, in fact, what Bruce paid for.)

The pseudo-leather texture of Deathstroke’s glove still feels alarmingly unfamiliar, and yet he finds himself clenching around it as Deathstroke fucks him slowly with it, letting the metal ridges between his knuckles catch against Bruce’s over-sensitive skin. It’s like nothing Bruce has ever felt before; even with the confidence that holding a sword at Deathstroke’s throat grants him, he feels powerless to stop it, and it makes his cock ache where it’s pinned against Deathstroke’s front, hopefully leaking onto his body armour.

It does start to feel good, once Bruce’s body adjusts to the sensation. Deathstroke fucks him steadily, using his single finger to massage Bruce from the inside until he begins to melt against Deathstroke’s chest. It’s become more difficult to remain upright without bracing himself on something, and Bruce is so hard and desperate that even the act of holding the sword against Deathstroke’s neck feels ridiculous compared to the desire he has to drop the sword go after what he really wants—but when it becomes apparent that Deathstroke isn’t going to let him ride his finger, he leans against Deathstroke and tries grinding his cock against Deathstroke’s chest instead, groaning low in his throat every time the finger presses fully into him.

“I can’t hear you,” Deathstroke murmurs. He presses his finger into Bruce again and curls it, dragging it along his prostate so firmly that Bruce’s knees nearly buckle.

He does that for what could be several minutes or several hours, fucking Bruce unhurriedly as he adds a second finger, then a third. He uses plenty of lube, and by the time he’s three armored knuckles deep, Bruce can no longer find it in him to care exactly what material has been put into his body. 

Satisfied with his work at last, Deathstroke removes his fingers and smears the lube and leftover come against the inside of Bruce’s thighs, leaving Bruce to sink down onto his lap and pant so heavily against the side of the helmet that the metal begins to fog from his breath. Deathstroke’s other hand is still pressed against his low back, presumably holding him in place so that he doesn’t slide into a puddle on the floor.

“Are you done pretending this is a power thing?”

“Fuck you,” Bruce mumbles. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Deathstroke’s helmet as he reaches down between them, searching for the zipper hidden in the thick material covering Deathstroke’s groin.

Deathstroke gives him a quiet chuckle, then hoists Bruce up with both hands and climbs to his feet. Instinctively, Bruce tries to wrap his legs around Deathstroke’s waist, but when Deathstroke deposits him on the bed he lets go without complaint, sinking into the mattress with relief before righting himself and reaching for the zipper once more. 

It takes a practiced hand to free Deathstroke’s cock from the multiple layers beneath his heavy tactical pants. He doesn’t seem to mind when Bruce unclips one of the belts and tosses it and his holsters aside, but as Bruce leans in to mouth at his cock Deathstroke curls his still-slick fingers underneath Bruce’s jaw and holds him in place only inches away.

Bruce swallows. “I thought this wasn’t about power?”

“This isn’t about power. It’s about not coming in your mouth as soon as I put my dick in it.” He thumbs over Bruce’s lips, smearing more lube on his skin. “You’re testing the limits of my patience.”

Deathstroke doesn’t sound particularly angry about it, but he’s not letting Bruce any closer. It’s a valid concern, of course, but it seems unfair that he should be able to hold Bruce in place while his cock is so close that Bruce can almost taste it. If he could only get a little bit closer, he could let Deathstroke move his hand down Bruce’s throat and feel his cock inside it—but the moment Bruce tries to duck his head and try, Deathstroke’s free hand slides into his hair and pulls his head up, so he can maintain eye contact until Bruce straightens up with a disgruntled sound. 

“Fine. But don’t think you’re getting out of fucking me. I didn’t wear that thing for two hours so you could just stand there and look at me.”

Deathstroke moves back through the shadows across the room to retrieve the bottle he’d left near the chair. As he walks back, he pours more lube into his already-soiled glove and gives himself a couple of quick strokes. The faint light from the window shines off of his fingers and his cock, and Bruce lets his gaze linger on both as Deathstroke draws nearer. “You think I’d back out on a deal this good?”

In all the time that they’ve been doing this, Deathstroke hasn’t once shown an ounce of hesitation. He enjoys it just as much as Bruce does, and Bruce suspects it’s not just the financial arrangement that keeps him coming back. “What’s so good about it? The part where you fuck me or the part where you get money for it?” 

He grunts as Deathstroke grabs him by one thigh and drags him wordlessly to the edge of the bed. Unsatisfied with the nonresponse, he presses his foot against Deathstroke’s chest to hold him at bay and stares up at him. He knows that Deathstroke wears the suit for a very specific purpose, but he can’t help but wonder what Slade looks like underneath it right now, if the rest of his face reveals the same cool indifference as his gaze. The darkness makes it more difficult to gauge his expression, but in the light Bruce knows he has much a harder time hiding his irritation, his amusement, his hunger. “Come on, Slade. Nobody fucks you like I do. Nobody forces you to keep coming back. Don’t act like this is just business.”

“I finished my _business_ nearly three hours ago,” Deathstroke reminds him. He pauses for a moment, then pulls each his gloves off and sets them aside. “But this…”

He slides a hand up the front of Bruce’s body. His fingers are slightly damp with sweat, and his touch lingers briefly at the base of Bruce’s throat, warming Bruce’s skin. When he pulls back, it’s to smooth his hands down Bruce’s thighs, easing them apart so that he can rub his cock slowly over Bruce’s hole. 

Bruce inhales slowly, still sensitive from being fucked thoroughly hours earlier, from somehow keeping an entire plug in to keep himself from leaking into his dress pants, and from getting thoroughly fucked by a glove that, if he’s being honest with himself, wasn’t really all that uncomfortable in the first place. 

Deathstroke’s still watching him—some part of him, anyway—but he doesn’t resist as Bruce nudges a heel against his back, easing him forward until he’s braced over Bruce on the bed.

“You can say it, you know,” Bruce says quietly, tilting his head to Deathstroke’s good side. He lifts a hand to the helmet and rubs his thumb along the lower third of the sagittal seam, imagining the shape of Slade’s mouth beneath the metal. “Or you can come in me again. It’s your choice.”

Deathstroke leans down and lowers his head near Bruce’s ear. His cock is still resting against Bruce’s skin, not yet pressing inside, even though Bruce is resting both heels against his back now. He’s so close that his armour is practically digging into Bruce’s chest, and as Deathstroke leans in closer, Bruce can see Slade's lone eye watching him keenly from within the mask's angular eye hole.

“Say it,” Bruce murmurs, sliding his arms around Deathstroke’s shoulders. “Tell me.”

Behind the helmet, Bruce hears Deathstroke inhale, and then—

**Author's Note:**

> This has no specific place in the established DCEU timeline, but I sure would love to see this Slade and Bruce falling into bed together after a decade or two of built-up tension. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
